


Yellow Sundress

by caleco



Series: Sansan One-Shots [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caleco/pseuds/caleco
Summary: Sandor gifts Sansa a yellow sundress; she reminisces on the ways he’s made her feel whole again.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Sansan One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697629
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	Yellow Sundress

**Author's Note:**

> As I’m writing my two long SanSan fics right now, I often find myself with tiny ideas that can’t fit into these stories or server better as a stand-alone. So, one-shots are my way of warming up! And we all need some SanSan fluff with Sansa getting all the love and support she deserves :)
> 
> As always, read and enjoy!

When Sansa unfolds the package, peeling back the gauzy paper and unveiling the soft, yellow sundress, she almost gasps. Sandor eyes her warily, like he always does when he gives her  _ these  _ kinds of gifts.

For a second, she panics, just a little jolt of nervousness and worry and nausea that grips her stomach hard; but then she takes in a breath, feels the calming presence of the man beside her. And she swallows through it. Once she reaches past that, she feels gratitude, feels love as she thumbs the soft, silky material.

“It’s beautiful,” She whispers to Sandor, and she can feel pinpricks of tears behind her eyes; when she wraps her arms tightly around his neck, she sees that warm, pure smile on his face. He never used to smile, but she insisted to him that it was  _ beautiful,  _ and she wanted to see it every chance she could.

In a way, it was what he’d done to her, too.

“Go get ready, little bird.” He says, pressing a quick peck to the top of her head, lips pressing into red, red hair. 

“I told Jon we’d actually be on time for once.” She laughed, grabbing the package gingerly. Sandor chuckles at that; they’d been preoccupied with  _ other  _ things last time Jon and Dany had asked them out to lunch. They were only ten minutes late, but the white-haired woman had raised an eyebrow at their disheveled state.

If someone told young Sansa that she’d be doing  _ that,  _ and actually enjoying it- she would’ve never believed it. There were times she woke from unpleasant dreams, early in the mornings, and she could still feel the faint touch of a slap across her cheek, swore she could feel fingerprints on her thighs. She’d long since thought she’d ever get rid of  _ him _ , if not ever.

But in a way, she wasn’t meant to. He had been right- he was a part of her now. But over time, she’d learn to understand that she wasn’t meant to erase. She was meant to cope.

And somehow, the gods had sent her a little bit of coping in the form of a giant, hulking man, with fearsome scars and a cruel tongue. The gods always had a sort of humor about them, after all.

She remembered when they first met again, remembered how he had treated her so gingerly and carefully, like an injured little bird. Broken wings, broken bones. He’d been amazed at her coolness, amazed at the grace with which she carried herself.

But then he’d accidentally brushed his fingertips over her arm, and it had sent her into a near panic. She couldn’t stop the tears, couldn’t keep herself from shaking. Sansa Stark had never felt so low in that moment, so ruined and destroyed.  _ I’m a part of you now. _

__ It seemed then that he understood her past.

He kept a distance from her, but only in a physical sense. He didn’t touch her for months, was never within arms reach of her. In a way, Sandor Clegane became the most gentlemanly person she’d ever known, and that alone boggled her mind. She’d known he was good, knew he was pure of heart from when he’d begrudgingly protected her in King’s Landing. But she hadn’t expected him to treat her so delicately; she’d never expected the Hound to be so  _ gentle. _

__ But he spent time with her, which was more than she could say of the others. She loved her family dearly, but they were busy with themselves. They seemed to think she was fine, that she was just an older Sansa that had gained in age, not in suffering. She didn’t think she could ever tell them, and that was fine. They knew anything involving a Bolton was likely traumatic, but they’d seen her chin held high afterwards and thought it was all healed.

It wasn’t.

Sandor had a clarity to him, a way of seeing through it all. She simultaneously loathed and loved it. 

But he’d talked to her when she felt most alone, let her tell him about her newest embroidery, about the books she read, about Robb and Rickon and her parents and all that she’d lost.

And to her surprise, he listened.

He more than listened; he started bringing her books, started finding scraps of silk from the merchants in Wintertown, started gifting her things. In the way that she couldn’t give him herself physically, he struggled to give himself emotionally; he had a way of lashing out at her when he felt too vulnerable. Sometimes, the gifts came without a note, and he acted as if it was unimportant the next day. 

If he could be gentle with her conditions, she could be gentle with his; she never pressed the issue, never made him talk about what he felt. 

They understood each other, in a way.

Holding the beautiful sundress to her body, she felt a bit strengthened; it made her red hair alight, made her pale skin vibrant. In the mirror, it slipped away from her body as she moved; she swallowed at the long, pale scar that ran across her belly.

It had been a meager attempt at escape, and her ex-husband had made her pay for it dearly.

She noticed then the cut of the dress; it was nothing like the high-necked dresses she normally wore; it was a lower cut, skimming the tops of her breasts in a womanly manner. She stiffened, knowing it would surely show the thin, white scars that crisscrossed the skin there.

But Sandor had known this. He’d bought her dozens of dresses before, lavished her with beautiful gifts. He’d never given her a dress that exposed the areas she hated the most.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, breathing in like he’d once taught her. A method of calming on the battlefield, letting the adrenaline simmer but not overflow. She’d taken it as her own, to calm her own inner battles.

And when she opened her eyes, she slipped the yellow sundress over her head.

When the fighting had finally ceased at Winterfell, years ago, when the realm had found a small bit of peace, she’d finally kissed him for the first time. It had been soft, tender, and she’d been shaking like a leaf. She’d felt pathetic and small in that moment, nothing like the strong lady she was supposed to be.

But he’d made her feel strong once it was over, his breath intermingling with her own. She wanted to drink him down, to steal a bit of his strength, his ferocity, to replace her own. 

He never initiated, made no change other than become closer to her. When he first moved closer, now within arms reach, he had been staring at her the whole while. A silent question she didn’t want to have to answer verbally.

She had smiled warmly, felt for the panic in her belly and found it empty.

Sansa remembered feeling like nothing she’d felt before. When she looked at him, her stomach always jumped, almost like an odd, not-unpleasant form of anxiety. She longed to touch him, which had frightened her immensely, sure her body was playing a trick on her.

“That’s lust, little bird.” He’d chuckled one day, when she told him. At the time, she’d nodded, her face furiously red; but looking back, she’d known what lust felt like. She knew it was much more than that.

The first time she took him into bed, he’d almost seemed as scared as she had been. She’d known of the Hound’s activities with the women of the night, knew of his reputation. But Sansa had felt less scared bringing him to bed than she had any other man.

He barely touched her, letting her be somewhat at ease. She’d still had her heart running wildly, her skin sweaty and the space between her thighs drenched. She wasn’t sure where the line between panic and worry crossed into lust and excitement, but she’d sure she had a foot on either side.

She’d been on top of him that night, felt a sort of fullness that extended from past just the space between her legs. His hands had been firmly tangled into the sheets, the reassurance that this was for her. They’d both bit back tears, even though he had tried to hide it. He’d never seen her scars before, but his eyes had kissed each one.

When she came, she heard him whisper a breathy  _ I love you. _

__ Remembering that night, Sansa looked back into the mirror. Saw the thin little scars, saw the redness of a past burn stretching up from her exposed knee. Saw the tiny, red scars scattered up her arms.  _ I love you. _

__ And so she smiled, tilting her chin up but this time  _ actually meaning it.  _ Her hands were calm when she slipped on a pair of white flats on her feet, her gaze steadied as she brushed out the waves in her hair.

And when she walked out into their living room, Sandor had smiled at her like she was the sun. His big arms were around her, and she felt  _ full.  _

“Sansa,” He breathed into her hair, and she smiled into his collarbone. She didn’t need the compliments, didn’t need the testaments to her beauty; what she had needed most was to feel unbroken, to feel complete and whole and everything she’d never thought she’d feel with a man. 

In her yellow sundress, scars apparent and uncloaked, she felt whole. 


End file.
